


Dust In The Eye

by VSSAKJ



Series: Dust Off the Peak [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, Low Chaos (Dishonored)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8641468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSSAKJ/pseuds/VSSAKJ
Summary: Time-travel isn't something Emily Kaldwin finds herself especially fond of. Unfortunately, the person nearest to her isn't sympathetic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little scene, meant to take place during the downtime between "A Crack in the Slab" and "The Grand Palace".

The voice that roused her was like a smouldering coal. At first, she thought it was Wyman.

“Emily?” There was the warmth of someone sitting on the edge of the bed near her midsection, and the grip of a hand on one of her shoulders—she reacted against it, making to turn and push at once. It was strong, though, and held her firm. “Emily, you were talking in your sleep.”

Emily’s eyes fluttered open, and she exhaled a shaky breath. “Was I?” The Dreadful Wale, and the shadows fled her cabin, lit by an oil lamp on her desk. That very moment, she couldn’t be more grateful for the soft orange light. Her whole body hurt.

Meagan slept three flights of stairs away, near the wheel of the ship. As she released Emily’s shoulder and leaned away, Emily looked towards the ceiling of her cabin, wondering aloud. “How did you… ?”

“I have trouble sleeping too.” Meagan’s single eye shone for a moment, though the warmth didn’t extend to her voice. She nodded towards the main room of the ship, where they usually debriefed. “Did you want coffee?” _Did you want to talk?_

Emily knew the answer to one of those questions, and nodded gratefully. As she rose from her bed to follow Meagan, she wondered how Meagan made walking onboard seem so natural, when Emily still found the ocean’s touch discomfiting. It wasn’t that the rocking put her off-balance—Corvo had trained her too well for that—but that she’d spent so many years of her life on solid, dry, land. Boats, she thought, would always feel unusual to her feet.

Meagan extracted two dented tin mugs from the galley and brought over the kettle, already steaming from its time on the stove. She placed one to each side of the wooden table in the meeting room and settled into place on a stool, lifting the kettle to fill each mug. Even when the ship rocked, she poured deftly and spilled nothing.

There was nothing to sweeten the coffee, but Emily didn’t mind. She wrapped her fingers around the hot cup until they burned, and then gazed at the Mark hidden beneath the wrap on her hand. The heat of her fingers did little to distract from its ache.

The boat creaked. Meagan murmured, “What bothers your dreams?”

Emily flexed her hand and shook her head, turning her attention instead to the murky black liquid in her mug. The low light cast by the oil lamp wasn’t enough to make it gleam brown and glossy like she expected. “Nothing I can explain.” Meagan snickered into her mug, and Emily raised her brows. “Surely you can understand that?”

“Not me.” Meagan replied firmly. “I dream of definitive things. Things I could touch. Things I could feel.”

There were things unsaid in Meagan’s reply; Emily could hear them. Emily could respect that, too. Unwilling to delve into the details of her own unpleasant nights, instead she shrugged her shoulders, a childish old habit that had crept back into her after she’d been deposed of her throne. No one watched her every move anymore—no one even knew who she was. She wished it felt more like a triumph than a failure.

The silence had grown, so she changed the subject. “I keep wandering into the storage room and hoping Alexandria will be there again.”

“Not me.” Meagan smiled, shifting her empty cup before thrusting it to one side and making a gesture with her hand. “Nothing against her, of course. I like it quiet.”

As if to emphasize the point, Anton gave a loud, rumbling snore from the next room. Emily couldn’t help but smile, half apologetic and half amused. “Sorry to trouble you then.”

“You’re all right. Lightfoot.” Now Meagan motioned accusatorily. “Except when you’re babbling at night.”

It wasn’t abrasive—it shouldn’t have bothered her. In fact, this was as close as she’d ever managed to feel to Meagan, and the conversation had been pleasant. But something in Meagan’s casual dismissal pricked Emily’s pride, and she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders defensively. “It’s not my fault. It’s all… strange. You wouldn’t understand.”

This time, Meagan laughed outright, cold and hard as an anchor. “I think if I dreamed of the same things as you, I’d probably sleep better.”

“Really?” Emily challenged, exhausted and sharp. An image of Aramis Stilton, cobbled together from his mangled present and resplendent past, flooded her vision. Words crowded into her mouth, protestations about the Void and The Outsider—things she’d only ever been able to discuss with her father and Wyman. The Mark ached again and she dug her fingernails into the wood, gritting her teeth. She couldn’t say. She couldn’t.

Meagan cast her an appraising look, up and down. Finally, she said, “No. I guess we all have our nightmares.” She shifted on her stool, leaning heavily to push herself upright. She took the lamp in hand and turned to retreat, motioning with the bobbing light, “Go back to bed, Empress. It’ll be morning before you know it.”


End file.
